To Look On Tempests
by Nymyrra
Summary: Gaara and Matsuri have had their share of close calls. They understand what it is to value the time you have, the people you love. And all the surprises that God throws at your feet. Rated M for mature themes and Kankuro's language
1. Chapter 1

_Check out Sonnet 116, by William Shakespeare, to understand the title._

_This is actually intended to be a prelude to a longer story, and ... what? What is that? Are you asking me what the hell I'm doing starting another story while I have so many yet unfinished? All I can say is, writer's block works in mysterious ways . . . _

_I haven't done MatsuGaa for a long time, and I miss it. Special thanks goes to Ednama, for listening to (and replying to!) my prattle, and to Tiger, for ... pretty much the same reason ^_^. Hope you two, among others, enjoys this one. _

**To Look On Tempests**

**Chapter I**

They watched in silence as the small, slim device dipped into the little cup, touching down lightly into the amber depths. They watched as it withdrew, brightly wet in the bathroom's light. They watched it darken, turning slowly from white to a pale, merciless pink.

Matsuri put the testing stick down onto the cloth spread out over the table, and she and Gaara, standing together, side by side, gazed somberly at the three other pregnancy tests laying beside the fourth, and most recent, one.

All were positive.

"It was only twice," Matsuri finally said, and turned her dark eyes hesitantly to Gaara's. They were too wide in her pale face, too young, too bright. "Only . . . only twice . . ."

They looked back to the row of pink sticks, gleaming in the bathroom light, the color of warm and budding things, of flesh.

". . . What are we going to do?" she said finally, and her voice, for all its softness, was too loud, too lonely.

"I . . . I don't know." Gaara reached out, touched the newest test. It felt hard below his fingers, plastic, undeniable, real. "I'm . . . sorry."

"Are we . . . still friends?"

Surprised, he turned to look at her, at her too-dark eyes and their uncertainty.

"Of course."

She looked so pale and sad in the too-harsh light, and he took her hand in his, something he had seen people do before, something Temari had done for him when he was ill, and when he held her like that, she seemed to relax a little. Her hand was firm, its curves and dips warm below his own touch.

"Of course we are." He repeated, and felt the weight of those words on him. Friends. _Friends. _So . . . normal, after all this time, and yet so . . . new. Years . . . both forever and an blink of an eye, too long and too short and . . . friends.

She held his hand back, and they stared down at the pregnancy tests, and the world seemed a very lonely place, with the darkness pressed right up to the windows.

"The Council," Matsuri began. "What are . . . I mean . . ."

"Don't worry." Gaara said, a bit brusquely.

"But –"

"You and I and . . . and this . . ." He tapped his nail to the head of the pregnancy test, "this is none of their business. This is _our _business. We're in this together . . ."

His voice trailed off, and she looked up at him.

"Sure we are, Gaara."

"Yes . . ."

He paused. She was biting her lip.

"Hey, Gaara?"

"Hm?"

Her black eyes moved slightly, as if she was going to look away, but didn't.

"Would you . . . marry me?"

He stared at her, at the dark wisps of hair falling forward over her cheeks, at eyes that were now determinedly fixed on his hands.

"Would you want me to?" He asked softly. "I do not want this to force you into . . . I do not . . . I want you to be happy. Matsuri . . . I have so many problems. I . . . you deserve . . . I do not want you to be stuck with . . ."

She was staring at him now, and the helpless, sad space inside him, the dark feeling he could never name, constricted, as if there were not enough words in all the world to say what he wanted to say.

". . . I want you to be happy." He said, and felt as if he had said everything.

They were still, standing beside the table, the clock ticking slowly in the background.

"Are you saying," Matsuri said finally, her eyes moving back up to his, her face tilting up so that she was looking him full in the eye, "that you don't want me to marry you because you don't think I deserve to be forced to deal with you?"

". . . I guess so." Gaara whispered.

They stared at each other, blue eyes to black.

"Gaara?"

He forced himself to look at her, and nodded.

"That's . . . that's absolute bullshit." Matsuri said vehemently.

He didn't say anything, and in that one moment, Matsuri could see the worry and the insecurity that shock had brought into sharp, pitiless focus carved clearly into her friend's face.

She took her hand from his, and then clasped both of his hands in her own, bringing them together in the space between them.

"I . . . love you. I love _you_. I have for a . . . a very long time. This –" she laid a hand over her womb, fingers spread across her body, "This wouldn't be here if I didn't love you. This wouldn't be created if we didn't –"

Gaara stared numbly at her, and she seemed to read his mind, because her face softened.

"Gaara . . . I understand."

"I don't know." He said sadly. "I just . . . you are precious to me, but I . . . cannot . . ."

"I understand."

"What if I never –"

She tightened her grip. "I don't care."

"But–"

How easily hurt, Matsuri thought, we are. The naked look of pain on Gaara's face was something that hurt, something that pricked her eyes and burned her throat.

"What you can give me – that's enough. That's fine. Gaara . . . I know how you feel. I know. Love is . . . hard. It's not anything specific, not anything nameable . . . it just _is_ . . . ok?"

She searched his face intently.

"Ok?"

Gaara slowly shook his head. "You should have someone else. Someone who can . . ."

His voice seemed to crack, and what came next was a small, vulnerable, anguished.

"What if I hurt you?"

Now Matsuri was shaking her head.

"What," she said, "if I hurt _you_?"

"That's not . . ."

They stared at each other.

"I don't trust myself." Gaara said finally, and the voice that spoke those words, like his expression, was raw, and pained. "I'm sorry, Matsuri, but this . . . being close like this . . . those two times . . ."

"It wasn't a mistake."

"But it was irresponsible. I could have lost . . ."

"No."

"You –"

"No." She brought their hands up, showing him their hands holding on together, and found his eyes. "You wouldn't have lost control. You're stronger than that."

"It will never hurt you," Gaara whispered, almost sharply. "Not while I can fight. But, Matsuri . . . sometimes . . . sometimes I can't fight."

"I know." She said. "And I've seen that. It's ok."

"It's_ not_ ok." Gaara whispered harshly. "What if I hurt you? Or the . . . the baby?"

The word was odd in his mouth, foreign, as if it didn't quite fit, didn't quite make sense. It hung in the air, and Matsuri was silent as Gaara breathed in deeply, and bit his lip.

"Our baby?"

"You won't." Matsuri said. She let go of him, brought up her hand, and brushed her fingers through his red hair. Her touch lingered on the scar cut into his forehead, love carved out in no uncertain terms.

"Gaara . . ." She swallowed, and searched for the words, "I know . . . what you're talking about. I know the danger. I've _been_ there – I've gone there with you – and I never got hurt. All I got to do was see you get hurt, and all I could do about it was try to make it better, and I never really could. But _I never got hurt_. You're stronger than that. I know you are. I trust you."

He looked away, eyes distant, mouth pressed tight.

"You love me." She said simply.

"I don't know." He replied. "I . . . can't tell. I don't know . . ."

"You love Temari and Kankuro."

"I . . ."

"You loved Yashamaru."

He was silent, and the eyes that came back to hers were haunted, and unhappy.

"You love me," she repeated firmly. "I know, even if you can't define it, even if you fumble in the darkness for it, even if you can't find its shape . . . you love me. You come back for me. You help me. You take care of me. We talk. I feel complete with you. When you're gone, I feel like a piece of me is missing . . ."

They were looking at each other, and some of the pain in Gaara's eyes seemed to ease.

"You love me." She said softly, black eyes intent on him. "I love you. We have a . . a baby." She took his hand in her own again, and brought it to her belly, against the spot where she and he had worked a miracle. "We have a _family_."

Gaara's eyes followed his hand, before moving back up to her face. "We . . ."

"Yeah." Matsuri drew in a breath, past her anxiety, past her worry, past her thoughts of how the Council would react and how her chuunin cell would react and how Temari and Kankuro were going to react and how everyone was going to react, and smiled. "We're a family. You, and me, and Temari, and Kankuro, and this baby."

Gaara watched her soberly, his gaze turned inward, and his hand still in her own, still pressed up against her.

"That's true," he finally said, and Matsuri stepped forward and hugged him, in profound and strong reply to the question in those words.

The bathroom, so white and empty, seemed a poor place for romance, but they didn't have romance, she thought. They had loyalty. They had a thousand moments by each other's side, resting across the fire on a mission, sneaking through darkened alleys, tending wounds, both of the flesh and of the heart . . . talking . . . bringing cups of tea . . . just being there. The teddy bear he had given her all those months and months ago, when she had just recently become his student, and he learned that she was scared of being alone at night. The time he got very ill, and she had stayed by his side in the hospital the whole night. The night three weeks ago, when the dust storm had come and turned everything to nighttime, and the howling winds made the world such a strange and lonely place.

Matsuri buried her nose in Gaara's thick hair, and held on. And after a moment, Gaara held back, even stroked some stray strands of hair from Matsuri's face with his light touch, the kind of gesture that says a thousand things.

The clock chanted its stilted chant, as if it was a witness to something that was best left to silence.

After a long, long moment, Gaara moved his hands down to Matsuri's shoulders, and gently broke free of her. Surprised, Matsuri lifted her head, but Gaara held up a hand for silence.

"I . . ." he said seriously, blue eyes both purposeful and distant, "I have to do this properly."

He returned twenty minutes later with a rose.


	2. Chapter 2

_This was originally going to be much longer, but I like the way it turned out. Short, yes. But I think it's meaningful._

**To Look On Tempests**

**Chapter II**

Gaara pushed the door open just a bit, listening for a shift in breath, a rustle of cloth. None came; and assured of her deep sleep, he leaned into the room.

The Kazekage's Suite, the set of rooms set aside in the Kazekage's Mansion for the living quarters of Sunagakure's ruling shinobi, had been a sparse, white collection of purely functional space when Baki had finally talked Gaara into moving into them. It hadn't taken long for Temari and Kankuro to get their hands on the decoration; Temari complained, loudly, that the place looked too much like a hospital, and Kankuro maintained that he was there because he said that she had told him to be. Gaara had been ushered out early; when he was finally let back in, it was to step into rooms painted in soft, darkish greens and greys, with traditional tribal designs and framed pieces of art hung up on the walls. Nara Shikamaru had sent him one of them (as a sort of peace offering to make up for the unspeakable crime of marrying Gaara's sister, or so Kankuro had theorized), and Uzumaki Naruto, on one of his diplomatic visits, had considered it necessary to paint a vibrantly orange smiley face on the inside of the bedroom door. The cabinet had been stacked with dishes, the stove replaced, and Kankuro had tinkered around with the wires for a while, replacing some and re-coating others. Temari, unbeknownst to Gaara, had even recruited Matsuri to help her go shopping for new clothes for her younger brother, who at the time was outgrowing much of his ensemble of black and red; Gaara had come home to a closet full of blacks, greys, browns, blues, and greens, and a sister insistent upon him trying out each piece and telling her exactly which ones did not fit and why.

Gaara hadn't minded that. After six years of resorting to wearing Yashamaru's clothes or stealing new ones himself in the dead of night, when there were less people around to stare, scream, and run, it was . . . comforting . . . to be . . . taken care of. After all those years of blank and silent walls, it had been comforting, he supposed, to see color. The words didn't seem quite right, but he was used to feelings not having names.

Now, after nearly five years, the suite was familiar. Homelike. In fact, it would have been his home, all those years ago, if he hadn't been born a Jinchuuriki. If he hadn't been given to Yashamaru to raise. This set of rooms had been where Temari and Kankuro had spent their childhood; where the Yondaime Kazekage had lived, breathed, slept, fretted over a weapon spinning out of control; where his mother had been brought to after her wedding, when she and his father had been newly wed. Baki hadn't wanted to ask him to move in for this reason, but the Council had insisted.

Gaara did not know how his sister and brother felt about this; Temari and Kankuro had simply backed him without comment. They had, though, thoroughly dismembered the suite, removed all the furniture from the Yondaime's household, all the curtains, all the color, and replaced everything with something new. Painted the walls of their past over many coats deep. Neither of them had actually said anything out loud about the task; the closest Gaara could remember was Temari pointing out a spot on the wall that she had drawn on years ago, and been punished for the crime. Kankuro had muttered something that Gaara hadn't quite caught, and then offered to buy everyone dinner.

"They didn't want you there, with all those ghosts still in place," Matsuri had said, later, when he had spoken to her of it.

All those ghosts . . .

It was dawn outside, just breaking dawn; blue and cool and shaded below the desert sky. Light was weak at this hour, but Gaara preferred it that way. Shadows softened people, he had discovered; shadows hid flaws, rounded edges, smoothed sharp corners, muted harsh colors. Shadows cradled the young woman curled up on his bed, took her tousled brown hair and turned it to smoke, her skin to ivory and remnants of moonlight.

Gaara stood there, one hand on the doorknob, watching her breathe.

* * *

He made two cups of tea, his with some milk, hers dark and almost bitter, the way she liked it. Hers he covered carefully with a cloth, wrapped and waiting for her on the counter. His he poured into a thermos and slipped into his backpack. There was probably a more dignified name for the professional-looking case he took around with him, to and from work, something more elaborate to be worthy of the Lord Kazekage, but Gaara had always hated fancy names. To him, a backpack was a backpack.

He slipped it on over his shoulder, and moved some of the boxes on the counter aside, looking for the spare key. He would have to lock up, but Matsuri needed to let herself out later on, and the door was could be unlocked only with the key. It was hanging up behind the sugar. He moved the jar aside, and brushed the picture frame set up on the counter with his thumb by accident, tilting it back and over. Gaara paused to right it; after a moment, however, he simply put it into his backpack, with the papers from yesterday.

He left the spare key on the table with a note, and closed the door as quietly as he could behind him.

* * *

Matsuri had wanted it taken.

It had been a chilly day, windy and rainy, with a downcast sky brooding high above it all, in that small fishing village. Minor mission – something the Council had given Gaara to get him out of Suna, but it had been valuable time with which to teach Matsuri, and Gaara hadn't minded it.

He remembered the wooden planks, always soaked and slick, that comprised the pier that led out to the grey sea. Remembered the people ducking under their long hats and cloaks, the vendors selling food that steamed. The smell of fish and roasting nuts in the streets; and always, everywhere, the scent of water, of salt, of rain.

Matsuri had asked someone, a person passing by, to take it. She was on the pier, standing next to him; he had been watching the water, but had looked up for the photograph. Six years ago? Seven? He had been thirteen, nearly fourteen. She had been nearly twelve. Six years, he supposed, and a few months. They both looked so young. Incognito for the mission; dressed in standard, Suna uniform, grey, with the tight-fitting vests that were never really quite the right size.

_Gaara & Me, on the Pier_, was what Matsuri had written on the back, in her small, neat script.

Gaara turned the picture back over, looked down at both their faces again. His dark-rimmed eyes, pale, next to her black ones. His hair was covered; so was his forehead. The flash had caught the metal emblem on both their hitai-ate, blurred the hourglass with light. She was smiling, her small, quiet smile, something said more with her eyes than with her mouth. Behind them, the churning sea was frozen, at peace at last.

He put the picture back into its frame, and set it on his desk. Where he could look up from his work and see them, those two little faces, a picture he had never showed Temari. Matsuri and him, on the pier.

Together.

Together . . .

He stood and watched the sunrise from his window, the picture in his hands.


	3. Chapter 3

_I have this huge scary test tomorrow ... X_X_

_Short, yes, but that's how it worked out. So now the plot bunny can leave me to my ionic bonds and hyperbolas already._

**To Look On Tempests**

**Chapter III**

Matsuri wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and clutched it close, felt its soft weight bearing down on her. Drowsy and warm, she made her way to the window, and peeked out between the shades, her tea cradled in her free hand. Outside, the sun was fully in the sky, burning brightly. She could see the robed figures of ninja hurrying to their tasks, heads ducked to avoid the light.

Midmorning.

_I have a lot of thinking to do. I did not want to wake you. I made you some tea. Meet me later, if you like. I have given you the day off._

No signature. She hadn't expected one. And she didn't really need one. Gaara's crisp, slightly slanting script spread darkly across the paper, leaving a vast track of white around it.

Matsuri laid the letter down, and put her cup next to it with a small smile. Because that was so like him. Letting her sleep in. The day off. The tea.

"_Hey – Matsuri! So, why won't you date me, huh?"_

_She turned to see him jogging briskly to catch up to her, his dark hair flipped rakishly to the side, smile firmly in place on his face, as if he was determined to keep it there._

"_Isamu . . ." She kept walking, her body language deliberately neutral, "It's not you. You're a nice guy."_

_She thought he might have been expecting that. His face hardened anyway, and that too-bright smile slipped._

"_It's him, isn't it?"_

_She kept her face calm. "Excuse me?"_

"_It's _him_, it's your . . ." He seemed to fumble, looking angry. "Your teacher. That kid."_

"_Do you mean Gaara?" She had turned her eyes forward, scanning the street._

"_You like him, don't you?" Isamu's voice was hard, aggressive. "Admit it."_

"_Excuse me." She repeated simply, and turned down the nearest street. _

_She could hear him yelling after her. "He's going to treat you like shit, you idiot! He's going to treat you like shit! He already does!" _

She finished her tea, and slipped from the blanket. It was cool in the apartment, although the day was beginning to warm up. Then the conditioning units would kick in.

_I have a lot of thinking to do._

She folded the blanket neatly, and walked it back into the bedroom.

* * *

_Meet me later, if you like._

She took her clothes off, folded each article, laid it aside on the chair. She did not live with Gaara, but she could hardly waltz out of the Kazekage's suite wearing his nightclothes without inciting a definite lack of productivity in his staff. The day off – when someone figured out that the Kazekage's assistant and special agent (and there were rumors that she was his personal assassin, as well) was not present – would be enough on its own. Matsuri sighed. She certainly appreciated the time off, especially for something . . . like this . . . but she was a jonin, and the work she was missing today would double up tomorrow because of it. And, while she admitted the benefits of rest, Matsuri did not like to be unproductive. She cleaned the scrub on the shelf (Gaara was a very clean person himself, but she did it anyway), and then poured some of his body wash onto it.

The water splashed about her naked body, and the suds rolled off beneath the scrub. Matsuri bent over to rinse her hair, combed it back with her fingers, and scrubbed her front. Her hands lingered over her belly, before gently rubbing away the soap.

_I have a baby . . . _

It would be just a small blob, a tiny mass of cells. She had seen the biology books. She knew the facts.

Matsuri stepped carefully from the tiled shower, and reached for one of the towels hanging up on the wall.

But still . . .

She glanced at the mirror, at her wet hair tracing its way over her skin, at the curves and hollows of her face.

Blue eyes or black? Brown hair or red hair or blond hair? Boy or girl? My nose? His eyebrows? Temari's lips? My mother's chin? And so much more . . .

The sheer possibilities were there, before her, an endless list . . . exciting . . . and . . .

_And I'm having a baby._

For the first time, the first real time, the words seemed to click together in her mind, settle into unmovable, certain stone. _This is real. _

"Oh, wow." Matsuri whispered, and covered her eyes, although the mouth below them was smiling, laughing. "W-wow . . ."

She dried herself off with hands that did not quite know where they went or what they did, and walked back into the bedroom on clouds. She settled down on the bed that gave slight way for her weight, and reached over to the desk. To the rose leaning to the side of a glass, set in water, and firm below her fingertips. The flower was red, powerfully red, and Matsuri picked it up and held it close. Red like . . .

_That's it, that's what I am._

Lucky, blessed.

Happy.


End file.
